


fulcrum

by diovis (dafen)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Female Warrior Lavellan - Freeform, Multi, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafen/pseuds/diovis
Summary: In the end, his back is bent over by the weight of his actions and the defeat on her tongue is the bitter taste of her own failures. But she promised him she would fix this. And if that means going back in time and surviving the events of the Inquisition once more, this time without the Anchor in her own hand—then so be it.





	1. context

The worst part is knowing that she isn’t enough.

(Not the fact that he would not be content with her. _That_ is a personal failing that she can handle, however disappointing it is.)

(Rather, her pain comes from the fact that she is not enough for him to have faith in. That she is not—good enough, _strong_ enough, _dependable enough_ for him to believe that she will save him. That she will help him find a way, and that he does not have to step onto the dinan’shiral.)

(But so be it. She will _make herself enough_ , whether he realizes it or not.)

He blinks; holds back tears, and she sees so much anguish cross his face that she can’t even hate him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rasping, from where she lies on her knees and cradles a stump of an arm. There’s something that probably seems a little—ridiculous, pitiful even, about her apology to him. Her empathy. Because he’s betrayed her, and he plans on betraying her world, but all she can think of is a gravestone with a single name and two words.

_DYING ALONE_.

She is so sorry for all that he has lost.  _Lonely wolf, how you gnawed your own leg._

He stills, in front of her, a step away from the Eluvian. Does not turn.

But he stops.

“I _promise_ ,” she tells him, and her voice breaks at the end. But she persists; speaks as clearly as she can through the gravel in her throat and ashes in her mouth. “I will fix this.”

A moment passes, and he is completely, utterly, _still_. The fingers at his side—tremble, she sees, for a split second.

And for _her_ , it is enough.

He strides through the Eluvian with his shoulders set and his arm shaking so lightly that she’s not sure he even notices. And Lavellan’s mind is made up.

_I will fix this_ , she thinks, and she knows she will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, but it's the prologue! i have chap 1. in progress, almost done. kind of a really, really slow update process because i have a bunch of things to make up for school, but my outline is done for the first half of this. hopefully this means weekend updates.
> 
> inspired by feynite's dickherald!au from tumblr. basically instead of the asshole trevelyan, i thought: well, what if lavellan fucks up somehow and the anchor gets placed in some mage noble's hands (literally) instead, and she has to spend half of her resources keeping up with the Inquisition and being useful enough to not be cast aside? while Solas, meanwhile, sweats nervously and wonders how This Damn Dalish Woman knows so much about the Anchor. and also thinks she's super cool.


	2. (if at first you don't succeed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she probably shouldn't have expected volatile time magic to work exactly the way she wanted it to.

Lavellan can’t believe she’s going through it all a second time.

Waking is strange. She can feels shackles on her legs and a blinding headache waiting behind her eyelids. And her leg’s bleeding, a hot rush of blood coming from a cut across her calf.

And her arm is whole.

She bolts upright from a damp stone floor.

The rush of movement sends sparks across her vision that she sees even before she opens her eyes, but the pain isn’t anywhere _near_ as bad as losing her arm was. Shit.

Shit.

Her arm.

Which she is holding, slung across her chest, _undamaged_ and _whole_.

She blinks in the dim, flickering torchlight. Takes a moment to traces the unmarked skin. Her body doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. She feels younger. Less bone-scars, scars, and her arm is back.

Her body doesn’t _hurt_ —

Time-traveling hadn’t healed her before, she remembers. Maybe it had... de-aged her body? She couldn’t remember if Redcliffe had caused her to grow a year, but this was definitely a more drastic change. At least four years’ worth of changes to her body. She wonders what else is different.

But she can still feel the _thing_. Can still hear the song, thrumming at the edge of her conscience. A product of her return from Tranquility.

Something so very ancient, and so very sad. Something that is alone.

She shakes off the feeling, peering around in the dim light again. Shackles. A cold floor, cobbled together from rough stone. The prison? She couldn’t remember being in the Fade—or meeting Corypheus.

Nightmare, she thinks. Perhaps he had splintered her memories again. She technically knew what had happened because of her experiences in—the other timeline. Ones which she retained as separate memories.

But—her body is whole. _Young_ , as if she hasn’t just gone back in time—

Lavellan stills. Her memories feel… strange.

The plains. Red-sail aravels, old wood and old leather. Meeting with Deshanna and discussing the Conclave. But something is wrong—her memories of her clan are too _close_. Too recent. As if she’d left the clan only a week ago.

Like she’s relived her _past_ , up until this point—

Realization has her blinking.

 _We’ve only ever traveled to the future before. The magic may try to address certain… inconsistencies within the timeline in strange ways,_ Dorian had told her, brow furrowed. Ever ready for magical-theory discourse. _Assuming that this works, I’m not exactly sure what underdeveloped time magic will do to account for the fact that there will be two Lavellans running around Thedas._

She closes her eyes, ignoring the pang in her chest that comes from remembering her friend.

Of course, she thinks, and tries not to groan. The displacement in time had placed her in the body of her younger self. She really _had_ been with her clan a week ago—technically. Her memories had been jumbled up to make them feel closer.

It was strange—as if both parts of her life had occurred at the same. As if both parts had _just_ occurred.

 _The Anchor_.

She moves, scrambling, to the edge of her cell, and checks the corridor. There are no guards yet. She presses up against the bars, as close as possible to the torchlight as possible, and holds her left hand up.

Bare. There is no sign that magic ever touched it. _How?_

The amulet couldn’t work outside the existence of the Breach. It shouldn’t have been able to put her in a version of herself that hadn’t yet touched the foci.

Something green crackles at the corner of her vision, and has her turning abruptly.

There is a man on the ground in the cell next to hers.

She can see him through the bars that divide them, on his back with his left arm outstretched over his head in her direction. There is— _magic_ in his palm.

Dread outweighs the shock.

She strides over the bars separating them, ignoring the burning pain in her calf, and kneels. His hand is close enough for her to see the green light sparking around it, emitting from the center of his palm. What little light their prison provides manages to outline rounded ears and the emblem of the Circle of Magi, threaded into travel worn robes.

If a member of the mage delegation had gotten to foci first, she should have died in the blast. She should _be_ dead.

She shakes off the thought. Thinks through her options.

Versatility is a blessed quality for an aspiring world-savior to have. She swallows her panic easily enough, mind immediately whirring into action.

Having a new herald is a problem—she’d counted on having the same political influence as well as the power of the Inquisition behind her in the… revised version of history. Not to mention, would this man even be able to close the Breach?

She has to be useful, she thinks. Invaluable enough that the fledgling Inquisition doesn’t throw her away as another knife-ear. And she needs to make enough of an impression on the new Herald that he _listens_ to her.

 _Please don’t be prejudiced_ , she prays. _Please don’t be a dickhead._

And then, wincing: _Please don’t piss off Solas._

She wonders, for a moment, how long it’ll take for the guards to come down and check on them.

“Hey,” she murmurs, experimentally reaching through the bars. “Wake up. Serrah.”

No answer—and then a soft moan.

The mage stirs, slowly, her patience abating with every moment it takes for him to touch his head and realize that there’s something glowing and _green_ in his hand. He yelps in pain, the sound surprisingly _young_ , and she feels an answering pang in her own palm.

 _Same,_  she thinks sympathetically, remembering the burn _she’d_ once woken up to.

“Hey,” she says again, when she thinks he’s spent enough time staring at his palm. He turns towards her with a start, almost flinging himself away from her bars. The move puts him directly in the way of a ray of torchlight, and Lavellan sucks in a breath.

He's young.

 _Very_ young.

“What—how old are you?” She asks, a vague sense of panic arising from the knowledge that the fate of the world rests in the hands of a guy who looks like… he's fresh out of his youth. Early twenties at most.

And some sympathy, as well, because this kid looks like… Well, a kid, and she feels kind of bad that he's stuck in shackles and with the weight of the world on him.

What was the Circle thinking?

“ _Twenty-four,_ ” the… _man? boy?_ says, fear immediately replaced by indignation. “Look, I earned my position on the delegation as much as the next mage. I'm not as young as I look.”

For a moment, silence.

“Okay,” she says, and they take a couple more moments to size each other up. “Sorry for the mistake.”

He's _pretty_ , as far as humans go—lean, and definitely taller than her with broader shoulders. But his skin is copper in the light, he's smaller than most human men, and coupled with his golden eyes, he doesn't look very imposing. Interesting, but not… _imposing_.

In fact, the brown-gold hue of his hair reminds her a bit of a fox. A very small fox.

Overall, he still looks like he still has to go through his harrowing.

“Who are _you_?” He asks suspiciously, slowly sitting up so that he's not half sprawled across the ground.

In answer, she shuffles forward so that he can see her face better. The small intake of breath tells her that this is his first time seeing vallaslin.

“A prisoner, just like you,” she tells him, knowing that Leliana would have figured it out by now. “My clan sent me to see the results of the Conclave.”

“You’re a spy,” he says flatly.

“I’m a Dalish elf,” she says slowly, not sure how much he’s heard about elven clans. “My clan merely believed that the events of the Conclave would affect them as much as they would affect the humans. I was sent here to observe, not interfere.”

“You’re…” the mage squints through the dim light, leaning forward to see her better. She allows her face to tip so that the torch flickers across her vallaslin. It’s been awhile since she’s had to endure the scorn of humans but—Lavellan is no fool. She still remembers the revulsion she had been raised to expect.

At the sight of her markings, the man’s mouth forms a small _oh_. After a moment of gawking, he flushes, then looks down.

“Have they… treated you well?” His hesitation has him staring down the stone in front of him, making him look more uncertain than worldly and self-assured. Which... isn’t a good sign for the fate of the world. _Buck up, kid, it’s only gonna get worse from here_.

Yet his question has her brow furrowing, and she takes a moment to answer.

“I only just woke up,” she tells him, allowing a question seep into her voice. “Although I believe I possess a few bruises that were not present before I… passed out.”

The mage winces, letting out a breath that resembles a sigh. “I… know my people tend to treat yours harshly, and I apologize for that. Mages have always had it hard, but the elves in my Circle always had to deal with the worst of it.”

Under her stare, he shifts even more self-consciously. So, the alternate Herald wasn’t a dickhead. A distinct sense of relief descends over her.

“An appreciable sentiment,” she says at last, and means it. This—young—man doesn’t seem like a bad person. “I’m aware of the prejudice that mages face. I admire your delegation’s bravery in coming here for peace talks.”

He gives a wry smile. “Some would call us foolish and dangerously ambitious.”

“You are people. It is within your prerogative to demand rights that you have been denied. Unlike the Templars, you have had no choice in receiving your abilities, or being a part of an institution you were been forced to join.”

He blinks at her, looking startled. The sweep of dusky lashes against his cheeks makes him look even younger.

“An interesting opinion,” he says, regarding her with newfound warmth. “This may be a strange question but—” he hesitates, eyes flickering towards the bars of his cell. “Do you believe the rebellion was inevitable?”

A delicate question. There was no doubt in Lavellan’s mind that this was a sort of test for him—they were stranded in a cell, shackled to the floor, in an unknown location. For him, at least. No doubt he was wondering if she could be an ally. As a mage, he was probably wondering if he could trust her—to a degree.

She takes a moment to respond, mulling over possible responses that would further endear her to him.

“I believe that corrupt institutions must be removed, rather than reformed, for progress to be made,” she tells him, and there is more truth to her words than posturing. “Whether or not the process of destroying them must be violent is up to the people who are in charge of them. If something is deeply flawed, it must be replaced. If such changes are accepted, bloodshed is avoidable.”

When she looks back down at him, he is once against staring up at her with wide eyes. She shifts. Well, what could she say? That she’d mused over similar questions as she settled into her role as Inquisitor in another life? It was probably better to have him believe that she was a naturally introspective individual.

“Another interesting response,” he murmurs, something like agreement glinting in his eyes. She inclines her head, allowing a slight smile, before leaning forward.

“Call me Lavellan,” she tells him, slipping her arm through the bars to offer him her hand. A human greeting. He regards it only for a moment, before reaching out and clasping it. With the hand that isn’t glowing green.

“Maxwell,” he says, seemingly automatic, before wincing. “Er—but I prefer Trevelyan. Makes me seem less like a di—”

The slamming of a door to their right cut him off, and they both wince in tandem. Hands still clasped together, they turn to peer at the figures that had entered.

“What is the meaning of this?” In another world, Lavellan would have attempted to launch herself out of the cell to embrace the owner of the snarl. _Cassandra_. She swallows the lump in her throat.

The weight of memory. _She doesn’t know you here._

The Seeker strides forward, heavy boots clanking against the damp stone, to stand in front of Trevelyan’s cell. Her gaze immediately goes to their linked hands, accusing. They let go immediately, the mage’s neck flushing a faint red, and Lavellan lifts herself onto her feet.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” Trevelyan says, voice surprisingly steady. “I believe we’re as lost as you are. What happened?”

“Do not feign ignorance!” the woman snaps at them, and her familiarity with the gesture is the only thing that keeps Lavellan from backing up the way the mage does. “The Conclave has been ruined, demons are _everywhere_ , and hundreds are _dead_ —save for you. I do not believe this to be a coincidence.”

At her words, Trevelyan gapes. Lavellan allows her own eyes to widen as her grip tightens on the bars of the cell. Her tension is not feigned, thought her surprise may be.

The loss of lives is always something to grieve.

“What—” Trevelyan falters, hands moving to the bars of his own cell. He struggles, knuckles blanching as he pulls them, and she realizes with a jolt that his leg is bleeding. No wonder he hadn’t stood before. A wave of sympathy runs through her. Could he even walk?

It takes great effort for him to pull himself up, but Trevelyan manages it. He leans heavily on the bars, obviously favoring the injury, features tight with pain. The gash on her own calf is superficial in comparison—it’s already stopped bleeding.

“What do you mean?” Lavellan asks in his stead, meeting the Seeker’s gaze with a furrowed brow. Cassandra opens her mouth, eyes boring into her own with accusation, but the figure behind her answers first.

“An explosion destroyed the temple,” an accented voice answers, hard, but more neutral than her companion's. Lavellan knows it well. “The Divine is dead. You two were the only people we found, still alive, in the remains. Witnesses say you stepped out of a green light, presumably shrouded in magic. That you two are the only survivors is something we cannot overlook.”

“The entire temple?” There is an undercurrent of horror in Trevelyan’s voice. When she glances over, he is pale under the light of the torches. “All those people…”

“And you believe one of us is to blame.” She finishes Leliana’s thought for her.

“But that doesn’t… that doesn’t make any sense,” Trevelyan says, shaking his head fervently. “Why would I… the mages want peace. We would never jeopardize our people’s only chance of stabilization. And the Dalish have no reason to interfere with this. Both of us,” He jerks his head towards Lavellan. “Already have too much to lose. Why would we—”

A _click_ , and Cassandra yanks the door to his cell open. She catches his arm before he can fall, already unbalanced, and ignores his noise of protest. Something in Lavellan lurches.

“Hold on,” the words are fast as she moves back to press against the bars between their cells. “He’s injured. There is no reason to be so harsh—”

“Then explain _this_ ,” Cassandra hisses at him, face drawn close and teeth drawn back in a snarl. The Anchor sparks in her grasp, crackling green light between them, and Trevelyan’s face contorts further in pain. “Explain how a mage and and an undocumented elf stepped out of what is being called _the Fade itself_ , unharmed in the wake of an explosion that killed _hundreds_ of innocents, with one having magic seared into his very _hand_?”

“ _We don’t know_ ,” Lavellan’s voice is hard. Steady. The only thing to cut through the sudden tension. She softens it with her next words. “Neither of us remember what happened. He’s injured. He’s in no shape to harm you in any way. And what did you mean when you said there were… demons?”

“They may be telling the truth, Seeker,” Leliana murmurs from behind the woman. “Neither of them were armed when we found them. The mage had been harrowed only recently. And if Solas is right, he might be our only way of closing the Breach.”

“The Breach?” Lavellan asks, feigned wariness in her voice.

At her words, Cassandra falters, grip on Trevelyan slackening. She lets go of his wrist after a final glare, and he scrambles to lean against the bars once more, glaring heavily at her. To her companion, she says, “Perhaps you are correct.”

Yet the Seeker whirls back towards Leliana within the next second, lines of worry more prevalent than animosity. “Still, they seem to know each other—”

“We only just met,” Lavellan cuts in, quick to deny any possibility of them being collaboratively responsible for the giant fucking hole in the sky. “Mutual imprisonment tends to be a bonding experience.”

Trevelyan snorts. Good. Humor was a good way to get people to like you.

Her comment has Cassandra turning to focus once more on her. The gaze that cuts into her would be intimidating, but in another life, Lavellan’s had this woman scream at pride demons and cut through greater terrors to haul her out of danger.

Although, the Seeker still manages to be _somewhat_ terrifying.

“ _You_ ,” the woman says, once more sounding accusing. “You were not invited to the Conclave. What were you doing there? Are you an assassin? Were you sent to sabotage the peace talks?”

“My Keeper heard of the meeting through a traveling delegation,” Lavellan answers evenly, brow appropriately furrowed in an expression of plaintiff confusion. This is the moment that will either make or break her interactions with the Inquisition, and she has no intention of failing once more. “I was sent to observe, not interfere. My clan believes the mage-templar conflict affects everyone across Thedas, not just the humans. We thought the Conclave… would have changed things. Hopefully for the better.”

Cassandra does not break eye contact with her. For a moment, the air between them is still. Trevelyan had stiffened when the Seeker changed the focus of her attention. Preparing himself to defend the Dalish elf? Lavellan would have snorted, if the moment wasn’t so precarious. The Herald of this world, then, would be a human saint.

“I… believe you,” the Seeker said at last, breath rushing out with a sigh. “Both of you.”

She moves forward, and, with a clank, unlocks Lavellan’s cell. She strides inside to undo the shackles next, while Leliana silently moves over to free Trevelyan. The man blinks and rubs his wrists, obviously surprised by the sudden change of heart, but does not protest. Leliana grips his shoulder to support him, unfazed by mages even now.

“As for the demons and the Breach,” Cassandra continues, voice somber and grim once both have been stepped out of their cells. “It is best that you see it for yourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so, obviously this isn't as flowery as the prologue. and we've gone from 0 to 100, skipping everything that might've happened post-trespasser (which is what that scene was supposed to be), but this is the first time i've undertaken a Long Project. i'm thinking... flashbacks. lots of em.
> 
> but anyways, here it is! a day later! this was 9 pages in google docs so i really did make up for the 300 word first chapter((:


	3. (apostate blues)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell Trevelyan is having a shitty, shitty day.

It took a long moment and gentle tap on his shoulder to stop Maxwell Trevelyan from gaping at the inexplicably monstrous, green vortex of energy in the sky.

“ _Maker,_ ” he breathes eventually, knees almost buckling against the Dalish woman’s grip. She’s holding him up with a surprisingly strong arm around his waist, absolutely no evidence of strain in her muscles on her face.

The Seeker nods grimly instead of answering, and Trevelyan almost feels a pang of sympathy for the hollow look on her face.

Almost.

She’s with the Templars and the Chantry, after all. And remorse for the people who have imprisoned and taken advantage of _his_ is something he’ll feel when the Void freezes over.

Another nudge to his side, then, and he glances over at… Lavellan. Her face shows little more than the same distress and confusion, he assumes, is reflected on his own. If she’s uncomfortable being surrounded by so many humans, she doesn’t show it—not that he’d blame her for hiding any animosity.

He’s seen elven apprentices with knives held to their ears by Templars at the Circle, before. The young ones learn early on to keep a straight face around humans.

“We should move,” Lavellan murmurs to him, shifting so that he can sling more of his arm around her shoulders.

He nods, trying not to wince at the burn in his leg, and lets her move them both behind the Seeker. Going uphill _hurts,_ badly, but there’s no point complaining. The alternative, he has a feeling, involves the Seeker dragging him through the snow with a rope tied around his middle.

So he trudges, quite dutifully, with them. Lavellan, he can tell, is doing her best to keep his weight off of the injury, but each step sends a throb of pain up his leg, and the shoddy wrapping job they’d let him administer isn't really helping.

In fact, he swears the dirty, spare bandages are giving him an infection _as_ they moved forward.

But the worst part is the magic in his left palm.

It’s disconcerting, having alien magic embedded in his skin. He tries to probe it with his own magic, and it sparks back at him angrily. As if on cue, the energy in it crackles, sending twinges through his arm. Lavellan stops at his flinch, looking up at him with a furrowed brow.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, the barest hint of concern in her voice. He shakes his head immediately.

Another bolt of pain shoots through his hand, and Trevelyan's knees buckle completely.

Lavellan catches him with both arms before he can fall, his slack arm catching in the fabric of her coat. When he looks back up, breathing heavily, the Seeker is standing in front of them with a grim look in her eyes.

“We’d best hurry,” she tells him, glancing at the trembling hand at his side. “The blasts are getting more frequent. Every time the Breach expands, your mark follows. Solas and I suspect that the two are tied to each other.”

“Solas?” he asks, trying to catch his breath as Lavellan hauls him up again.

“An apostate—a hedge mage. He has offered to help us figure out the origin of your mark.” The Nevarran accent stilts some of her words.

Bitterness has his opening his mouth before he can think. “An apostate? Do you plan on imprisoning him when the day ends?”

The Seeker jerks back, eyes flashing. He can feel Lavellan’s stare against the side of his face, but can’t tell whether she’s surprised at his audacity or disapproving of his lack of tact.

He isn’t exactly in a position to make scathing remarks, after all.

“There is no time for this,” the Seeker says, with more than a hint of a growl. She turns abruptly returns to stomping through the snow. When Lavellan quietly tugs him along with her, he _swears_ the human woman’s purposely increased her pace to spite him.

“We probably shouldn’t piss off someone who’s responsible for our inevitable fate at the hands of the Chantry,” Lavellan tells him.

“Why bother appealing to her? I’m a mage, and there’s a gaping hole in the sky that reeks of magic. Even if the Seeker spares me, I’m sure there’s a mob nearby that wouldn’t mind dealing with an apostate.”

“I think you’re a _bit_ more important to them than the average apostate,” she says dryly. “Not every mage can say they’ve been seen walking straight out of a tear in the Veil with strange magic seared into their hand.”

“They’re looking for a scapegoat. What you just described makes me the ideal one.”

“Or it makes you the kind of person they can’t expend. I think they’re right about the connection between your Mark,” she jerks her head up towards the sky. “And _that._ What can you tell about the magic?”

He stares at her. “You’re asking _me?_ ”

“Well,” Lavellan says mildly. “Since I have no magical abilities of my own, it’s either you, or the Seeker. And I don’t think she’s feeling particularly friendly towards either of us right now.”

Well. She has a point. And maybe he’ll seem less suspicious if at least _one_ person can vouch for how little he knows about the Breach.

Still, he hesitates before sharing his suspicions. As nice as Lavellan seems to be, she _had_ said she was a spy. There was absolutely no reason for them to trust each other—especially if there was a chance that only one of them would be blamed for the explosion.

Then again, something about the situation told him that they were both screwed, either way.

“Well, it’s definitely not _my_ magic,” he says, purposely raising his voice so that the Seeker can hear him from up ahead. “I can’t tell exactly where it’s come from, either. If the Veil’s been ripped, my best guess is that this is _raw_ magic from the Fade. I can’t feel it trying to dissipate, which is strange—usually, if a spell is cast, the magic either tries to return to the user, or gets used up.”

“Can Fade magic be directed by a mage without that kind of connection between them?” He glances at her, surprised. It’s an interestingly phrased question. Few non-magic users knew the mechanics behind spell-casting—the difference between mages and _other_ people was the fact that they had an innate connection to the Fade. Mana pools were the extent of that connection, which is why some mages had more power than others—their connection was stronger, meaning they could pull more magic through.

In this case, without a mage to direct it, the energy in the Mark should be too volatile to stay in his hand. The fact that it wasn’t trying to leave, and rip his hand off in the process…

“It’s more like a glyph, than a spell,” he tells her, brow furrowed. “Runes keep the magic stabilized so that a mage doesn’t have to concentrate on giving it form—like heat, or cold. But there aren’t any runes on my hand. Just a chunk of magic.”

“What are the chances…” Lavellan hesitates. “Nevermind. It’s speculation.”

“Tell me,” he says, curious. “A non-mage might have a fresher perspective.” The tilt of her lips is more grim than humorous, and Trevelyan feels a prickle of unease.

“If the magic is—bound, directly to _you_ , would it still a need a rune? Or the influence of a mage?”

“Hypothetically, no,” he says slowly. “Magic isn’t supposed to—it’s not supposed to be manipulated like that. Everyone has their own connection to the Fade, even non-mages who cannot directly access it. Theoretically, if magic were taken and… _patched_ onto someone, the dichotomy between the two would cause one to deteriorate the other—it would harm them because it isn’t _their_ raw magic.”

In front of them, the Seeker’s head tilts in their direction

A pause, before he realizes what she's getting at.

Trevelyan holds up his trembling palm slowly, staring down at the green light crackling within his palm. Lavellan follows his gaze.

“Oh, shit,” he says.

He can’t help but wish that he hadn’t so avidly studied Advanced Magical Theory in the Circle, because every single thought process in his mind directs him towards a horrible conclusion.

“It’s going to consume me _alive_ ,” he says out loud, flatly. “How’d you—nevermind. Let’s hurry up. Maybe this Solas fellow has a solution to both the hole in the sky _and_ my impending death at the hands of strange magic that I’ve _never seen before in my entire life_.” Is he getting hysterical? Of course not. He's just... expressing his turmoil to the degree it deserves.

Lavellan winces. “Optimism is good,” she tells him, awkwardly giving him a pat from where her hand lies on his middle. “We don’t know if you’re right about the… side effects of the Mark. And even if you are, it doesn’t _look_ like it’s going to begin expanding any time soon.”

He’s silent, for a moment. Maybe she’s right. They may both be wrong. He isn’t a Senior Enchanter, after all. Fresh out of a Harrowing from an extremely sheltered Circle doesn’t exactly give one much credibility in terms of strange magical inflictions.

Above them, the Breach flashes, and his hand crackles again.

Or maybe he _is_ screwed.

For the rest of the walk, Lavellan doesn’t mention the Mark again, as if she can tell that he’s trying to come to terms with his own mortality. Trevelyan appreciates the sentiment. Especially after the third time he stumbles over a strangely oriented piece of iron ore in the ground, when she ends up catching him.

Again.

When they reach a bridge with uniformed scouts upon it, he can feel her go strangely still.

“We are almost at the forward camp,” the Seeker looks behind her shoulder to tell them, about to step onto the stones. “We’ll meet up with some others before then.”

“Wait.” Lavellan’s voice is surprisingly commanding. To his surprise, the Nevarran stops, though she turns as if to berate them both.

“What—” Lavellan ignores the question and moves them both forward, shifting Trevelyan back onto his feet.

“Can you stand?” she asks him, but her gaze is on the scouts, so sharp that he’s not sure she’s really paying attention for him.

The second he nods, she lets go of him. He’s startled when a hand reaches out, tan and calloused, to hold onto his shoulder.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Pentaghast sounds stucks between indignance and disbelief, but Lavellan doesn’t react, except to step forward with her brow creased.

“There’s something…” she glances up, towards the Breach, and Trevelyan follows her gaze. The fluctuations, he realizes, are getting more frequent. And the blasts of energy are getting closer—

“ _Move!_ ” The Seeker’s voice is so close to his ear that the shout makes him start, before he realizes that it’s not for him. When he looks up, the scouts are gaping at them—not at the blast of magic that the Nevarran has spotted, shooting towards them.

And Lavellan has sprinted halfway across the bridge.

It happens so fast that he blinks only once, blood pounding in his ears. _Fifteen people._ Most of them react to the command with well-trained efficiency, dropping the supplies immediately and stumbling off the other end of the bridge. The others—

Lavellan skids across the ice, scoops up a shield from atop a crate, and barrels into the remaining cluster of scouts just as the blast hits the bridge.

For a moment, Trevelyan stumbles, the Seeker’s hand the only thing that holds him up. He can’t help the sense of panic that rises in his chest as he blinks through the debris, slack-jawed, to stare at the spot where they had been standing.

It’s… gone. Crumbled. Jagged ends of crushed stones marking the gap between the two new pieces of the bridge. The scouts who made it across stare, shocked, back at them, and the Seeker’s fingers dig into his shoulders.

She steps forward toward the broken edge, taking him with her, slowly.

Someone coughs from below them.

“Hey,” he hears someone familiar call from atop the frozen lake, voice hoarse. “Down here.” _Lavellan._ He breathes out, relieved.

The Seeker stops moving just before the lake below is in sight, eyeing in the precariously balanced broken stones. “Are you alright?” she calls down, voice tight.

“Kind of,” is the reply. “But there are, um, a couple demons down here too. A little help would be good. The ice is pretty stable down here, no worries.”

A scoff from the Nevarran and a glare that effectively says “ _Stay_ ” is the only warning he gets before she lets go of him, then slides forward to hop down.

Descending the ten-foot drop to the frozen-over lake.

“ _Hey,_ ” he has to cling to uncollapsed side of the bridge to avoid buckling again, slowly edging his own way forward to lean over. Any snarky comments about dropping him like a sack of grain dry up in his mouth when he sees the two demons below him.

They are as monstrous as the Breach above them.

Dark and rotting, covered in soiled, frayed cloth—he’s seen demons before, of course, in books and during his Harrowing. But there’s something… _wrong_ about seeing them in the physical world. The edges of their forms ripple strangely in his vision before sharpening, grotesquely formed.

He has to stop himself from physically scrambling back, a sense of terror gripping him as he shifts his grip on the stone.

And then promptly feels something distinctly wooden in his grip.

Trevelyan looks down. “Huh,” he says out loud. Apparently, the Seeker’s forces also happened to have a few mages with them—ones they outfitted with their own staffs.

He lifts it for a moment, testing the conductivity—it’s ice-inclined, and he’d rather have something a little friendlier to fire magic, but it’ll do. Leaning more heavily against the side of the bridge, he peers back down.

Lavellan’s managed to find a sword somewhere in the rubble, holding her own against one of the demons. He can see the scouts she pushed forward scrambling up the banks of the lake, bruised and probably nursing a couple broken bones, but definitely _alive_.

He ignores the wave of relief and concentrates on Lavellan. Unlike the Seeker’s metal armor, her mercenary coat doesn’t seem to be providing much defense against the demon’s talons. Her shield work, though, is flawless, if somewhat awkward—as if she’s skilled, but hasn’t used one in a while.

It makes sense, he supposes. She’s Dalish, but she’s probably been traveling for a month at the very least. Probably had few opportunities to brush up on her wielding skills.

Well, at least this gives him an opportunity to contribute. Instead of standing at gawking at them both.

Not wanting to risk startling her with his magic, therefore opening her up to an attack, Trevelyan drops a barrier down on Lavellan first. Instead of jerking back, she relaxes her shield, focusing more on offensive. He arcs magic down his staff and flings forward a fireball next, hoping that his aim doesn’t suffer from his lack of experience with the weapon.

It hits the demon head-on, stunning it and making it burst into flames. _Lucky hit_. He can’t help but grin at the hit, especially when Lavellan smoothly takes the opening and lunges forward to skewer it.

The noise it makes at her hit is _horrible_ —a cross between a screech and wail, before it dissipates into wisps of ash and smoke. Tattered pieces of cloth are left behind.

His first demon-killing. It almost brings a tear to his eyes.

He takes the next few moments to stumble around the side of the bridge, down to the ice. Adrenaline keeps the worst of the pain in his leg at bay, and the presence of a staff lets him send rejuvenating magic down the limb. It won’t heal it, but it’ll dull the pain.

By the time he reaches them, the second demon’s gone, and Lavellan turns to face him.

When he moves in front of them, however, using the staff as a walking stick, the Seeker steps back and brings her blade up in front of them.

“Drop your weapons,” she says, voice hard. Trevelyan gapes.

“ _What?_ We have to be able to protect ourselves. You can’t be serious.”

Next to him, Lavellan slowly moves to put the blade down, shield already dropped. He turns his incredulous gaze onto her.

“You are still dangerous.” Somehow, the Nevarran accent seems sinister when accompanied by the pointing of a sword.

Wordlessly glowering, he turns back to the Seeker, before tightening his grip on the staff. If they still had a mountain to climb, there was no way he would trust his entire wellbeing to a person who’d already threatened him twice. She meets his glare with one of her own.

After a long moment, Lavellan coughs politely.

The Seeker sighs, relaxing her stance. “Fine.” She sheathes her sword, pointedly moving back without showing them her back. “You may be right. I am not certain I will be able to handle any demons we face on my own. But _remember,_ ” there is a warning in her tone. “I can handle you _both_.”

When she finally turns away, striding forward stiffly, Lavellan wordlessly picks up the shield and slings it across her back.

“Why would you disarm yourself like that?” he asks her under his breath as he falls into step alongside her. He’s cycling magic through his leg at this point, reserving enough to continuously keep the pain from becoming unbearable. With the support of the staff, he no longers needs to be half-carried.

“The Seeker isn’t a fool,” she tells him, the start of a smile on her face. “She’d have come around, anyways.”

He stares.

“Please don’t tell me you like the woman.” At the sound of his appalled voice, Lavellan _grins—_ he blinks at her, startled by the expression. Her smile is wide and crooked, the scarred corner of her lip tilting higher than the other, and her eyes crinkle. It’s… completely charming.

“Lavellan,” he continues. “She’s bared her _teeth_ at that demon. She’s bared her teeth at _us._ And she has the most terrifying war cry I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“From what I’ve seen, she’s tenacious _and_ honest. Both are admirable qualities.” A pause. “Her facial structure is also admirable.”

A moment of shocked silence on his part.

Well.

Trevelyan grudgingly admits. That’s... a valid point.

He can’t help but sputter, though, as he follows her.

They encounter more demons as they continue, and Trevelyan wonders, and one point, whether the world will be consumed by the Breach before they reach it. The only bright side to the ordeal is realizing that he and Lavellan… actually have pretty complimentary methods of attacking things.

It’s more, he realizes, the fact that Lavellan is able to adapt her own style to any situation. At one point, she ends up back-to-back with the Seeker, and seamlessly switches from attacking around mage-thrown fireballs to parrying inbetween shield bashes from the warrior next to her.

The sheer number of demons that are flung nearby them as they continue makes it so that fighting them begins feeling almost like second nature.

At least, that’s what he thinks until they reach the top of a ruined stairway and find the first small tear through the fabric of reality.

“ _What is that_?” he breathes, gazing at the suspended window of crackling, white-green light in the air.

The Mark sparks in response, and he bites back a strained noise.

It takes him to realize that there are others besides soldiers fighting the three demons in front of him.

The first is a elven man, bare-faced and bald, wielding a staff with experienced ease. A shorter, stockier figure in the corner fires bolt after bolt from a repeating crossbow _—_ a dwarf, he realizes, and is somewhat confused at the company the Seeker seems to be keeping.

When he turns to ask who they are, only to see both Lavellan and the Pentaghast stride forward into the middle of the battle, he realizes that he should probably shut his mouth and save the questions for later.

Battling in close quarters is a bit harder, but both warriors and the other soldiers keep most of the attention on themselves. He flings fireballs uninterrupted, dropping barriers down on the most-wounded when he can.

The elven apostate freezes the last demon, and Trevelyan realizes that he’s moved closer to the… rift.

Before he can open his mouth and ask what’s next, Lavellan steps up next to him, hand slipping around his Marked arm’s wrist.

“Trust me,” she tells him, both their breaths coming in pants. “I think…”

He nods, and she doesn’t bother finishing the thought. She brings his hand up, grip warm and steady, and holds it up to the rift.

The Mark crackles once, weakly, then _snaps_ his arm forward, a thread of magic forming between it and the veil-tear.

She doesn’t let go of his arm.

He feels like something is pulling him forward—for a brief, dim moment, he thinks that his hand will be separated from him, and panic has him tugging it back. The second he does, he can _feel_ the magic flare in front of him, before the connection snaps the rift shut and pushes his arm back at him.

Lavellan releases his wrist once he pulls it back to his chest, his breath coming out hard and fast with adrenaline.

For a moment, they stare at each other, wide-eyed.

“What did you do?” he asks finally, once he’s sure he can speak without his voice cracking. Which would be incredibly embarrassing, because he’s pretty sure, based on the way the soldiers are staring at him, that everyone else here thinks he’s in his late teens.

“I didn’t—huh,” she pauses, blinks, looks at the the space where the rift had been, and then back at him. “I had a feeling that would work, but I’m not sure why.”

“But what _was_ that?”

A throat clears behind them, and they both turn to look at the source.

The apostate.

“This is Solas,” the Seeker says. “He watched over both of you while you were sleeping. He studied the Mark for as long as he could, and has offered his expertise in dealing with the Breach.”

“What about once this is over?” Lavellan asks the question quietly.

The elven man gives regards her with… a strange measure of mild approval. “One hopes that the people in charge will remember those who helped.”

The Seeker shifts, uneasy, on her feet, and Trevelyan has to bite back a grin.

Huh. He might like this man.

“Seeker Pentaghast told me that you strode out of the Fade with the Mark in your hand. The magic in it resembles the magic of the Breach—I don’t believe you were responsible for creating the tear in the Veil,” he says, glancing down at Trevelyan's hand. “But I believe your Mark may be the key to fixing it. Something, I think, which was proven by your closing of the smaller rift.”

“I’d take his word for it, if I were you,” the dwarf speaks this time. “He’s the guy responsible for making sure neither of you died after the blast. You, especially,” he nods at Trevelyan.

“Thank you,” he says automatically, then frowns. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Optimism, perhaps. And there is strong evidence that whatever gave you the Mark is also responsible for the Breach. It would make sense for the two to affect each other—I merely assumed that magic in your hand could exert some degree of control over the rifts.”

“Huh.” Quite a big assumption to make.

“What I find interesting,” Solas continues. “Is how your companion knew how to close it. You were both unconscious for much of the time you spent with each other.”

Lavellan shakes her head, perplexity written across her own face. “I wasn’t sure it would work, but I—it was strange,” She hesitates. “It was—a split-second thought. I’m not sure why I reached that conclusion, myself—I’m not as familiar with how magic works.”

In any other case, Trevelyan would have called bullshit. But Lavellan looks—honestly confused, he thinks, and slightly alarmed by the attention the others are giving her.

“Right, well,” the dwarf breaks in. “That’s great for us, but I believe we skipped introductions. Varric Tethras, at your service.” He inclined his head towards them, an amicable grin on his face.

“Are you with the Chantry?” Trevelyan asks, and Lavellan stiffens next to him.

Solas laughs.

“Varric is… a _guest,_ ” the Seeker says, sounding strained.

The dwarf in question snorts. “Against my will, of course.”

“Call me Trevelyan,” he says, interjecting. “Member of the mage delegation, and the unlucky one with this thing in my hand.” He would wave the Mark around, but something told him that the Seeker might react in a way that would cause him to lose a limb.

“Rivaille, of Clan Lavellan.” Trevelyan blinked. That was her _surname?_  “I prefer my clan name, however.”

Huh.

"Pleased to meet you both," Varric tells them, sounding like he actually means it.

“Leliana must be at the forward camp by now,” the Seeker moves towards a gap in the rubble. In order words, it was time to stop talking.

Wordlessly, they fall into line behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...................im so. im so sorry.  
>  I was sick the week I posted, then got hit by a month of schoolwork and the fall sports season(((: [running 5ks sux]. I'm updating bc I got sick again and had time to write the chapter haha [screams]. Rating change to M bc I realized I'm really... explicit in terms of language and probably am gonna end up referencing some Freaky things (but not smut bc I'm too young to go to hell!!!).
> 
> I'm gonna disappear into my cave but first off: I SWEAR this isn't gonna involve repeating every single game event, ever, with detail. I'm still trynna figure out if this should be like... ordered, cohesive drabbles or the current long-story format it's in.


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